Monday, July 2, 2007

Convenience-Store Warfare

[I am standing in line to buy cigarettes at my un-air-conditioned neighbourhood convenience store; there is a middle-aged man wearing his moustache and aviators as though either one of them will conceal the fact that he’s fifty-something; Moustache is talking to the female Clerk, and I have been watching him do so for TEN MINUTES]

Moustache:[perusing the impulse-items]

...Aaaaand...I think I’ll take one of these...

["one of these" is a meat-stick]

...And...well, I’d better get some gum too, right?

[chuckles and winks at Clerk; pores over the gum-choices like he’s determining whether or not to bet the deed to his house in blackjack]

Me:You’re not serious.

Moustache:
[looks quickly over his shoulder at me, but then resumes his gum-search]

Hey, this "berry-blast"...does it really explode in your mouth?

Clerk:
[dead-eyed stare]

I believe so.

Moustache:[picks up a pack and looks it over]

Really?

Me:
I’m going to strangle you.

Moustache:[turns]

What?

Me:I am going to choke you unconscious.Moustache:[looks at gum, but turns back to me again]

Are you threatening me?

Me:
[mock-horrified]

Me? No.

[pause]

In my country, "choke you unconscious" means "to hug".

Moustache:
[begins to turn back to the Clerk but stops and looks at me]

What country are you from?

Me:
Canada.

Moustache:
[looks at me for a few seconds, and then, spinning back to the Clerk...]

Oh! I need milk!

[no-one responds]

My wife’ll kill me if I don’t bring home some milk.

[keeps looking at the Clerk, who is sighing in every way but verbally]

Could you...?

[Moustache nods toward the fridge containing the milk at the back of the store – apparently, he wants the lone Clerk to go fetch milk for him]

Me:
ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

Moustache:
[angrily turning towards me]

Pardon me?

Me:
Who ARE you?

[pause]

This is a set-up or something, right? Some grinning, white-haired talk-show host is going to come out from behind an aisle and tell me I’m on Candid-Camera or something...

[I look around for a camera; one look at the Clerk tells me that there will be no TV-time for RyGuy]

[Moustache stares at me, speechlessly frowning; I mimic the milk-nod he gave the Clerk]

Could you...?

Moustache:[turns back to the Clerk]

What do I owe you?

[The Clerk tallies up his purchases, and as he’s reaching for his wallet, he looks at me, and I theatrically blow him a kiss; his jowls clench, and his face turns crimson. He gathers up his stuff, and glares at me as he steps away from the counter]